Page 120 of Stone Coast

I kept watch behind us, my heart thudding, pulsing in my ears.

Muzzle flash lit up the night.

A bullet from the forward starboard passageway rocketed toward Tyson. The copper minion of death screamed through the air and pelted the bulkhead.

He returned fire with a quick double-tap.

An agonizing groan, followed by a thud, filled the air as the thug tumbled to the ground. Crimson spurted from gaping wounds.

Another gunshot erupted from the starboard passage that lead to the salon.

This time, the bullet hit Tyson.

My heart leapt into my throat.

The impact tumbled him back against the bulkhead in the stairwell, smearing it with crimson.

Tyson returned fire, the barrel spitting like a dragon. The deafening cacophony bounced off the bulkheads, ringing my ears.

Footsteps filled the salon as the bastard took off. He escaped through the glass doors, sprinted across the aft deck, and clambered over the passerelle. He hit the dock and ran to the parking lot, leaving his fallen comrade behind.

Tyson slid down the bulkhead, leaving a smear of blood. His face twisted with pain. He clutched his left shoulder, trying to stem the tide of blood seeping through his fingers.

I rushed down the companionway to give him aid.

“Call 911,” he growled.

I pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed emergency services. I filled them in on the details and gave the address of the marina. Tyson stayed on the line with them as I advanced to the fallen thug, kicked away his weapon, and checked for vitals.

He was long gone.

The operator wanted him to stay on the line, but Tyson knew better than to let them keep recording. He ended the call, handed me the phone, and told me to take pictures of the assailant.

I pulled off his black balaclava to reveal his hard face. Recognition flashed in my brain. Brief glimpses from my past. Snapshots. I knew this man. But I had no idea who hewas or how we were once connected. More images flickered behind my eyes.

I snapped photos, making sure to get clear close-ups of his face. Then I sent the images to my burner.

“Get rid of the gun,” Tyson said. “Put it back in my drawer. You can’t be anywhere near a gun, given your current situation.”

He was right. It would violate my bail and put me back in lockup.

“Are you okay?” I asked, my worried eyes surveying him.

Tyson looked at me like it was a stupid question. “Other than the hole in my shoulder, I’m fine.”

He grimaced with pain.

I hustled up the steps, stashing the pistol I’d borrowed from the nightstand drawer. By the time I returned to Tyson, the distant sound of sirens warbled. I moved into the salon, then stepped to the aft deck to greet the emergency responders as they arrived. I waved them in as they hustled down the dock.

“Where’s the victim?” an EMT asked in an urgent tone as he boarded the boat.

I led him through the salon to Tyson, who was sitting on the steps, still clutching the wound. I stood back as they treated him. They checked his vitals and attempted to stop the bleeding, then started him on an IV.

Moments later, squad cars pulled into the parking lot, lights flashing. The boats in the marina flickered with red and blue.

Soon, the sheriff and two deputies were aboard the boat. Sheriff Daniels surveyed the scene with a grim face. He was a good ol’ boy from Texas with a straw hat, steely eyes, and a no-bullshit attitude.

“Is he gonna live?” Daniels asked.